Illusions

It’s the day after Christmas, 2006. I’ve decided to stay in my pjs, sit by the fire, cocooned in a blanket and cradled in soft music that has begun to calm this rumpled space that was happy but total chaos only twenty-four hours ago. The grandkids and their harried parents have taken off for a northern destination, to visit other grandparents for the rest of the holiday, all eagerly hoping for snow. Five-year old Parker asked me what snow was like as we enjoyed our early snuggle this morning. It was one of those questions that can instantly make you pause and give you a change of perspective. I realized that he has never experienced snow, not in his entire, albeit short, life, so of course he has no way to fully understand or relate to it. Watching it in movies or cartoons could never replace being in it, smelling it, feeling the cold air and tasting the sting of frosty flakes on your tongue. I do hope he gets his wish. His chances for snow in Atlanta or where he lives in Florida are pretty iffy. But everyone should have at least one good snow encounter for the sheer joy of it.

Growing up in Houston, my chances for snow were nil and next to nil. I remember desperately pining for snow around Christmas time. I’d play Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” on the record player so many times my mother would finally beg me to stop and go outside to play. I prayed for snow; I admit to making wild promises that I never had to keep because it never snowed during Christmas while we lived there, although one January, before we moved in 1961, Houston did have a freak two-inch snow that was so completely gone the next day it was easy to believe it had been simply imagined.

The enchanting thing about snow is the way it engulfs everything, completely concealing all blemishes. Snow provides an illusion of equality. Humble shacks and mansions alike, are transformed into quaint, picturesque abodes. If smoke is coming out of a chimney, all the better, the imagery is perfected. A thick masking of snow can redress a raw landscape, scraped and denuded by construction, into a pristine canvas. Even a stand of dead trees or acres of junk can suddenly become graceful sculpture with even a thin outline of fluffy white.

I never thought of it before, but I guess the derogatory term “snow-job” comes from what snow does. It covers up, it hides; it makes all things that are ugly, equally beautiful. But ultimately, especially in climates where snow is anomaly, the illusion does not last for long. What was true before the snow fell, continues to be true after it dissolves into the ground. Old barns and ragged shanties quickly lose their flurry-induced charm. Gouged and rutted landscapes once again lie fallow, perhaps made even worse by the contrast.

Maybe this is what we love about snow, the fantasy it brings. After all, the world can be a truly ugly place full of mean and depressing vistas. Not all views are lovely. Snow, with one good swipe, can give us relief from the ugliness around us–if even for a day or so. The problem with illusions is that they aren’t real, and what is not real has no substance. Snow is real but the fleeting deception of beauty that it brings is not. While illusion can be a relief for a short time, it’s no place to live. As bad as it is, reality is better than that which is not true because that which is a lie is destined to fade away eventually, often leaving behind devastating disillusionment.

We live in a dangerous era, where false impression is not only embraced as the real deal but actually preferred. Glitter, paste and plastic has taken over. Even snow can be faked now. We are conditioned to crave all that is beautiful and reject anything that is ugly, even if it is true; we teeter on the brink of a foolish ending because only a fool can be convinced that hiding what is true makes everything permanently beautiful. Beauty may be in the eye of the beholder, but it also is as it does. It's like the difference between standing in the middle of a blinding snow flurry or shaking a snow-globe and watching the results from the outside. Nothing compares to the real thing.

And just like a lovely snow, when it’s gone, that which it temporarily hides beneath it's illusion always emerges into the light once more anyway.